


The Knickers

by shambling



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, The Author Regrets Nothing, inguinal canal fingering, morally dubious, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13275849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: "The dress, I can understand, the bra I can live with, but the pants I can't begin to pretend I understand."In which Q has to crossdress for a mission, accidentally ends up seducing a beautiful woman, and everything gets morally dubious from there on in.





	The Knickers

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I'll write some silly porn about Q in a dress  
> Also Me: I shall imbue it with far too much Plot and Logic and Feelings.
> 
> I don't for a moment think that transwomen are just boys in dresses, but I do think that its exactly the kind of cover someone would use if they were doing some morally dubious/unscrupulous spying.
> 
> In the first draft, I wrote a scene where Q feels very bad and donates a significant chunk of money to mermaids, but I couldn't make it work.
> 
> Also I wrote this over a course of months in emails to myself, if the grammar doesn't line up.

"The dress, I can understand, the bra I can live with, but the pants I can't begin to pretend I understand." Q is speaking so quietly, head leaning in his hand to obscure his voice further. Back at Q-Branch and Eve has no such worries. "VPL" she retorts, brightly, "stop fussing with the earwig, people will be suspicious.

Q is sure that Eve has been finding this all far too much fun, and suspects her of setting it up. It had all seemed so easy at first, hardly 00 level and so no need to involve them. Infiltrate the club, chat up the owner, get the piggyback into the system and leave, safe in the knowledge that they could hack in and out all day long if they so chose.

But then it had turned out to be a lesbian bar, one with "Standards". R had summarised this succinctly with: "if you're not a size 8 femme you can fuck off". She had then proceeded to tell almost everyone in sight they could fuck off too. Looking around, Q found he could see why. 

So someone (Bond, the bastard) had suggested that maybe if R wouldn't go and Eve very much couldn't that Q would look lovely in a little black dress.

It had all escalated rather suddenly, Q borne along protesting in their wake, but the fact remained that they needed a hardware connection, that if no-one knew they were there it would help, and that 004 was out of the country.

Q made a note to talk to M about diversifying their workforce.

So Eve and R, cackling like fucking harpies had helped Q to wax, shave, pluck and preen. All of it fucking hurt, and Bond smirking away in the corner didn't help at all.

He'd tried to draw a line at the eyebrows, face smarting from the waxing, but Eve had pointed out that no self respecting femme woman would be caught dead in his “state”.

He briefly spent some time designing tiny eyebrow wigs in his head, to allow an agent to change their face and for him to wear whilst his grew back in.

Feeling raw, it was time for make up, most definitely Eve's area of expertise. He sat quietly through a confusing range of layers and lotions, he doesn't even flinch when Eve comes at him with the eyelash curler, for which he thinks he ought to thank RTI training, it looked lethal.

They argue briefly about lipstick; ("I'm a modern man Eve, I wear lip balm all winter how different can it be?") and Eve wins on grounds like "neatness". The whole lot is sealed with hairspray and lipcote, which smell and sting to the same degree which is when Q really starts to wonder what he's in for.

R arrived with prosthetics, and an armful of fabric and a gleam in her eye, having been let lose in the MI6 wardrobes. The prosthetics are infact R’s own design, haptic sensors so that you really feel the sensations being transmitted. Normally used for faces, but no reason they couldn’t be applied to the creation of false breasts, practically seamless gluing. The science doesn’t make Q feel any better about it. The choice of outfits don’t either.

No-one can agree on an outfit, until M turns up and hands over a garment carrier. "It's vintage Chanel, it comes back in perfect condition or you don't come back." She says, mildly, but Q suspects she isn't joking. M gives a small sigh when he returns from his office/impromptu dressing room; Eve wolf whistles and R merely looks on admiringly. "I'm glad I kept it, although it's not fitted in ears..." M says thoughtfully. "I wore that on my first mission you know. Treat it well."

By the time Eve has coaxed him into a pair of heels, peep toe louboutins, hers, and he's practised walking in them, really not so hard, if painful, it seems like half of mi6 has come to see him off.

Bond takes a picture, shows Q. If he didn't know otherwise he'd swear that the person in the picture is an elegant young woman with a sweeping pixie cut, rather than a very awkward young man in uncomfortable contact lenses, worse shoes and his bosses old dress. It's surprising what you can achieve with highlighter and contour.

Now, and for tonight, he is Nicola Adams, recent Oxford graduate, now interning at Goldman Sachs, Sagittarius, two cats, tragically single and lives in Fulham. All the best lies have a grain of truth in them.

If, and Q sincerely hopes it won't be the case, anyone gets close enough, or suspicious enough to ask, Nicola will reveal that she is transitioning, and has not yet been able to afford full surgery privately, and "isn't it a pity the NHS are so backwards about these things?"

All of which doesn't entirely explain why he's leaning on the bar in an extremely exclusive west end lesbian club, sipping a gin and tonic and making bedroom eyes at the owner.

He almost wills it not to work, it'll have to wait for double-O 4 to return and he can escape home to have the most confused wank of his entire life without Eve in his ear exhorting him to "chat her the fuck up".

It is not to be, from the far end of the bar, the owner, a Ms Joanne Anderson, has noticed him and is sashaying towards him. Fuck.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone?" Which as chat up lines go isn't the worst Q has ever heard, but it's not one of the best either. "I think I've been stood up." Q responds, sighing softly and trying to look harmless and appealing. "All dressed up and no place to go." It works, Anderson gives him a look that is pitying and tender all at once. "A beautiful thing like you? I don't believe it, she doesn't know what she's missing." Q smiles back, and they slip into easy conversation.

In short order he confirms information they already know, and proves delicately for more, whilst feeding her bits of his cover. Joanne also likes cats, has a degree in journalism, and likes to travel. Q keeps his expression carefully neutral. The volume of drugs that flow into the country under this woman's gaze is astronomical. Hence the need for a tap.

Nicola enjoys travel too, and recently visited the most delightful health clinic in Austria, the massages are out of this world. Q carefully ignores Eve, cackling in his ear. He thinks he might even have heard Bond let out a whoop.

Kids? Nicola hasn't really thought that far ahead. Joanne (Call me Jo) would quite like some, she imagined a boy and a girl, blonde haired and blue eyed, although it would be nice if they inherited her red hair.

Q excuses himself briefly to the bathroom and muses that he can finally understand the appeal of travelling in packs to the ladies loos. He gets 4 compliments on his hair and outfit, and 2 requests for his number, and one woman grabs his arse in the way by without further comment.

It's frankly a relief to lock himself in s cubical and sit on the closed seat for a moment.  
Come on he extorts to himself, the sooner you do it, the sooner you can be at home with the cats and as much vodka as you can drink chilled without throwing up.

Q emerges, gives himself an appraising look and then reapplies his lipstick in the mirror. The Greek chorus in his ear has gone quiet now, watching.

Nicola flirts some more and gets just a little bit handsy, touching elbows and knees and pretending to be far more giggly drunk than Q actually is.

It takes all night, but Joanne finally gives him an appraising look. He only needs to be invited as far as the office, and they've been half flirting all evening about IT. Joanne has mentioned a computer problem and Q has graciously offered to look at it. Q knows there is a problem because he put it there, to give himself an in, when he was unable to find the proof they needed from afar.

"Come upstairs?" She purrs, it's an invite he really can't refuse, although he can hear Eve in his ear: "you can always say no Q, you don't have to do anything you don't want to." She sounds slightly scared, which is what pushes Q on.

He stands, taking a moment to find his balance in the heels and then takes the proffered hand: "I'd love to, but there's something I need to tell you." Joanna puts a finger to Q's lips, she's tall, almost as tall as him although the heels are even more vertiginous, 5'8 according to her file, compared to Q's 5'11.

"Tell me upstairs." She whispers, and leads him to a door beside the bar. Behind it, as per the schematic is a short corridor, at the end of which is a lift. Joanne tows him as far as the lift, leading him in and pushing him against the wall, brushing his waist as she reaches past to press the button. It's now or never, thinks Q, worried that any minute not she's going to press herself right up to him and realise.

Joanne however goes straight in for a kiss, and what a kiss. She's clearly practised, winding her long slender fingers into Q's hair and making him emit the tiniest of moans. He hopes to god Eve and the others have had the good grace to turn off the audio.

The lift chimes softly, the doors open onto another short corridor with two doors. A personelle flat, and Joanne's workplace room. Q can picture the schematics.

"I've really got to tell you something." Q says, quickly, as she opens the door and steps in. She pauses, an enquiring look, Q deliberately stays out in the corridor, where he can run. Well, kick his shoes off and run.

She raises a questioning eyebrow, and Q swallows. His discomfort at what he's about to do is genuine, but not for the reasons she'll think.

"I'm trans." Q says, quickly, "I haven't..." he makes an awkward move that encompasses his torso and feels himself flush. Next time he's insisting they wait for 004 consequences be damned. Joanne's mouth is open in a little 'o' of surprise. She sashays back into the corridor and Q is already mentally being thrown out by security and hailing a cab.

"That's okay," she puts his arms around Q's neck for another heart stopping kiss, which she trails down his neck, punctuating her words with gentle bites. "You just tell me," kiss, bite, move, "what you're comfortable with," kiss, bite, move, "and we'll take it from there?"

Q's head is thrown back, its only her arms around his shoulders still holding him up. "Yes." He gasps, and chooses to believe that he imagined a small intake of breath in his earpiece. It's easier to relax.

He's listened to 00's do this a hundred times before, intentionally or otherwise, it's the easiest way. Tire someone out, let them fall asleep, then take the information and be gone before breakfast.

Q undoes her dress and she slips out of it, the whispering rustle of silk, and he presses himself back against her, distracting her as much as he can with kissing and roaming hands, like a nervous woman who doesn’t want to undress in the light. He genuinely doesn’t want to take the dress off, but mainly because he’s nervous that she’ll be less willing to overlook what lies beneath it if she can see.

He tries his very best not to get an erection, it wouldn't help, and the amount of tucking and special underwear he suspects might make it quite painful too.  
She's a drugs baron he tells himself, and we have reason to believe she probably traffics people too it's this second piece of information he's here trying to prove, and he can see the laptop winking at him from the desk.

It's just a job Q thinks firmly, running a finger down Joanne's spine so that she shudders and presses herself closer, get her distracted, get the piggyback on and you can go home and never think of this again

She undoes his dress and so there's no option but to let it slide off, and briefly, Q sees their reflection in the wardrobe door mirror as he steps out of it. They do actually look like two women, admittedly two women in suspiciously matching underwear sets and stockings and heels like some kind of lesbian porn cliche, but two women. He relaxes, just a tiny bit.

Joanne presses close again, so Q takes a moment to do Bond proud, unhooking her bra one handed whilst they continue to kiss, letting the other hand trail slowly up the outside of her leg.

Bra off, Q brushes a thumb across her nipple, and is rewarded with a palpable small gasp into their kiss, Joanne shifts to bite his neck again and he seizes the moment to slip his leg between her thighs, which makes her let out another small noise.

It's awkward and Q feels a bit as though he's riding long somewhere above his own shoulder watching what goes on, but he's taking a strange sort of pleasure in it. It's a job well done. No drugs baron, possibly people trafficking, lesbian will ever have had a better or more highly immoral shag than this one.

She slides a hand under the back of Q's bra strap and pauses a moment in her exploration of his neck. "May I?" It's now or never, Q is confident that the work they've put in will do the job, so he nods. She unhooks it with a pinch, and Q genuinely shivers as it falls to the floor. She doesn’t need to know that he’s desperately hoping the new prosthetics they’ve invented will hold up to the job.

Joanne notices nothing out of the ordinary and circles her arms around Q's neck, kissing him again. It is Q's turn to make an involuntary noise now, she ruts against his hip, and the crotch of her knickers is warm and starting to get wet. He's definitely got an erection now, but the YouTube tucking videos he watched are doing the job, although barely, so it's merely a very strange feeling. Not entirely unpleasant. Q is worried he's about to learn all sorts of things about himself tonight. It's a shame his colleagues are probably listening and watching.

Q starts to manoeuvre Joanne towards the bed, somehow they step out of their respective shoes as they go, and Q lowers Joanne gently onto her back whilst remaining upright himself.

He's feeling a certain confidence he's never had in bed with his own partners, and wonders how much of this he can out down to being "Nicola" for the day and to what extent psyc would like to study and question him if he did.

He removes Joanne's knickers, admires briefly that for all her overtly feminine efforts she hasn't fallen prey to the fashion for baldness, and sticks his face in.  
Joanne arches off the bed and she buries her fingers into Q's hair, which must be a good start. "Write the alphabet" comes Bond's voice in Q's ear, sounding oddly breathy. Q says nothing, does nothing to show he has heard and carries on, making a mental note to put a copy of cosmopolitan in bonds pigeon hole with the sex tips highlighted.

Write the alphabet indeed.

Q has mild jaw ache, has lost any concept of the passing of time when Joanne grabs him with both hands, and pulls his hair hard enough that it hurts. It's an unexpected development that sends a spasm straight to Q's own groin, and he groans a little into the motion, which is apparently the tiny vibration needed, because Joanne lets out a soft scream and comes all over Q's face.

It's not so different from giving a blow job, being squirted on, there should be a better word for it than that he thinks.

He's almost certain he imagines an appreciative moan in his ear that sounds suspiciously like Bond. He ignores it, concentration instead on crawling up into the bed, pulling Joanne with him, and letting her lie drowsily on his chest. Hopefully this will be enough. Q normally dislikes an inattentive lover, but right now what he wants most keenly is to deposit the tiny hardware bug from his necklace, go home and wank indecently in the shower.

He considers praying to a god he doesn't believe in, but Joanne is tracing patterns on his chest with her nails and it's making him shiver. He understands now, why 004 was so insistent the prosthetics needed to transmit sensation. She’d claimed it was so she didn’t have to pretend to feel things if she was changing her face or body for an assignment, but Q is starting to think they’d gone overboard on the sensitivity. Not that he’s complaining.

He starts to wish he'd gone for taping, but Nicola oddly doesn't seem to mind that his body is getting slowly less female presenting, despite the sterling efforts of his lacy knickers.

"If you don't mind me asking."

She says, languidly, "how long have you been, you know, out?"

Oh Christ, thinks Q, surely pillow talk is for afters not in the middle, and I am never letting anyone talk me into this again. "Only about 18 months" his voice says, "I'm saving up to have bottom surgery privately, I've been a bit worried"

Lies lies lies, Q doesn't think of himself as especially moral or he wouldn't work for MI6, but he does have his own morals. Such as they are, and he feels like he's crossed a line.

Joanne pushes herself up on one elbow, let's the hand that has been tracing around his nipples and making him shiver trail lower, more shivering. "Do you mind if I touch you?" She asks, and Q shakes his head fervently. He has a new respect for the 00s. How the fuck do they keep their eye on the objective? Probably a people trafficker. He repeats to himself, an internal muttered litany.

"How would you like me to refer to..." she trails off and gestures expansively. Fuck, he hasn't got an answer for this one. "I, I don't know" he stammers out, and the answer is at least genuine. Joanne gives him a very predatory smile and finally rests her hand down on his crotch, running him gently through the silk knickers. He's now so hard it hurts and it's only really the act of lying on his back that's keeping his errection in anyway tucked down now.

"That's okay, let me show you something?" Q swallows heavily and nods, a small movement.

Joanne slips her hand inside the knickers, around the gaffe, and puts her slim manicured fingers into the tiny space behind his cock, which feels nice in itself, the. Starts to gently push.

Her finger disappears in, and Q feels a sensation which is odd and wonderful at the same time, like everything is drawing inwards from his hips. He arches up on the bed swearing, and Joanne bites his throat in response, hard, which makes him squirm, hands grasping at the bed sheets. Q feels pinned down, like a butterfly under glass, as Joanne fucks him with her finger in a way he knew medically was possible but had never considered before.

It feels like hours and minutes, Q squirms as she uses the heel of her hand to rub his cock, not letting up with the finger, interspersing kisses and bites to his chest, with filthy nothings murmured in his ear.

He hears a panting he's sure isn't his own at one point, and tries very hard not to think about the voice he heard last, and the possibility that even now James Bond might be in Q-Branch wanking about this.

He wraps an arm around Joanne's waist, pulling her close to him where she writhes and rubs her already wet clit on his hipbone.

They come, if not together then at least within the same few minutes. Joanne gasps and stills, slightly less wet this time, and Q comes forcefully up his own back and can't bring himself to care.

In his ear, he definitely doesn't imagine hearing bond grunt and say "fuck" which frankly isn't something he's in any fit state to deal with right now.

This time Joanne is quite sleepy, it's a pity then that Q is too. He tries to keep himself awake by calculating Pi in his head, but it's a struggle.

Finally, her breathing changes to soft and regular, and Q eases himself out. Suddenly he feels on high alert again, even with the itch of spunk drying in his underwear. He removes the bundle of wires from the necklace, has the laptop open and the wires installed in seconds, and the case back together again before Joanne can stir.

"We're in." Says R in his ear, and Q wonders briefly what has been happening without him as he redresses.

It is very easy, and dangerous, as he contorts to pull the zip back up, to imagine R and Eve tactfully going out for coffee when it became clear where he was going. Bond gallantly offering to stay on call, something he did all the time it'll be fine. He slips out the door, shoes in hand, and bites his lip, worrying at it, trying not to imagine what Bond might've been doing alone.

He steps back into his shoes as the lift dings, and an elegant blonde woman let's him out through the still busy club. Clearly members bars do not halt for petty nuisances like midnight. "Bond will be picking you up. Look for something stupid." Eve in his ear now, typing, tapping and swearing in the background. Presumably R.

Q suppresses a groan as he looks around, to see Bond stood by the open rear door of one of the company jaguars, a chauffeurs cap pulled down low over his eyes. He gives the blonde at the door an elegant little wave, slides into the rear seat and waits til Bond has closed the door to immediately kick the shoes back off with a groan.

Bond gets back in and they dive sedately away, so Q doesn't rearrange himself as much as he'd like. It's probably for the best if he doesn't stick his hand up his skirt with Bond in the car.

"Have fun?" Q doesn't have to see Bond's face to know that he's smirking. Two can play at that game. "Yes. Did you?" Silence. Bond drives smoothly but quickly. Q had never known him lost for words before. "You; weren't supposed to hear that." Is what he eventually says. "I offered to monitor comms when you went upstairs, because R said, and I quote 'I'm not listening to that shit I can never look him in the eye again' and Eve said 'this is too weird'. But we all thought you shouldn't be left without backup." This might be the longest explanation Q has ever heard Bond give anyone for anything. He's oddly proud. He shrugs, "glad you enjoyed it too" and then blushes. Perhaps an evening spent pretending to be someone else is wearing off on him.

Bond clears his throats and doesn't say anything, eyes on the road, and in no time at all he's parallel parked with ease outside Q's tiny house. In Fulham.

"Come in?" Q asks, hand resting on his seat belt buckle. Bond turns to look at him, face a studied mask. "Why?" You bloody well know why, is what Q wants to say, because you started at my arse all afternoon and because I've been looking at yours since you came back from the sodding dead. Because I'm confused and still a bit horny and I think I might've done something terrible and immoral.

"Because I haven't a bat in hells chance of taking these contact lenses out without removing the false nails first, and Eve told me if I don't let her do that I'll rip one to the nail bed. And frankly I don't fancy the sound of that. Also it's really hard to undo the zip on this dress. And you've got steady hands and you're here already..." he's rambling, he knows. Adrenaline starting to wear off at long last.

He's cut off by the decisive movements of Bond, who is out the drivers door and opening Q's already. He puts the shoes back on, not willing to brace Fulham barefoot, and winces as he stands.

Ever the gentleman, Bond is at his side almost as he thinks it, catching Q's elbow and steading him as he starts to wobble. It's like he's not thinking, as he passes Q's hand to his far one, reaches around his shoulders to close the door and guides him up his own front path with an arm around his shoulders. The James Bond Experience, he can see why women fall for it. Even ones who ought to know better.

They don't speak, not until Q has opened the door, disabled the security, stepped in and turned the light on, at which point he nearly falls over a cat. Bond tenses for action as something lands lighting on his shoulders, but its just George, taking his customary perch on the nearest person to the hall shelves, which leaves Q to giggle helplessly, scooping Edie up from under his feet and placing her on the stairs, out of harms way, so he can remove the shoes. 

"Bond, meet Edie and George. They seem to approve of you." It really is funny, Bond trying to look stoic whilst an enormously large ginger tom kneads his shoulder and purrs. Soon, Q thinks, he'll rescue the one from the other, although he's not entirely sure who needs rescuing. 

Bond remains stoic, eying the cat sideways, unable to really turn his head to look with the mass of cat. Q scoops George away, careful to hold him away from M's dress, and places him on the stairs, next to his sister. 

"Come on. Help me out. The lights probably best in the kitchen." 

Bond continues not to speak, and Q can't help but feel he's being catalogued, studied. He feels pinned down, like a butterfly under glass, trying to fill the silence. He leads the way though to the back kitchen, flicking on the occasional light as he goes, before turning on the kitchen lights. He'd have suggested the bathroom, but next to the bathroom is the bedroom and that feels a step too far. Q plants himself in the kitchen, where the lights are brightest, and places Eve's shoes in the box on the side, not taking any chances with them. He waves at the sink, where Bond washes his hands with meticulous care, following full hospital approved washing technique. Q doesn't comment. Who knows where those hands have been, he doesn't want an eye infection. 

"Look up." is all Bond says, as he steps into Q's personal space, one hand coming up to rest on his face. It takes everything Q has not to go to pieces right then. The other hand is rough, but tender, as it caresses his cheek bone, and it takes years of practice at the opticians for Q not to flinch as the fingers fill his field of vision, getting too close, and swipe the lens from his eye. The relief is immediate, and he briefly shuts his eyes, blinking away the tears that rush in to rewet his eyes. "One down." Bond says, and he is close enough for Q to see him smirk. It's strange, only being able to really see clearly in one eye, but he looks away again, widening his gaze as much as possible, for Bond to flip the other one out to join its partner on the side of the sink. Q blinks furiously, resists the urge to rub his eyes as Bond steps back out of his personal space. Too many conversations with Eve have left him with a certain knowledge of what happens if you rub eyeliner into your eyes. 

Which is when he remembers that he doesn't have any specialist equipment for removing the makeup. Hopefully, soap and water will do it. 

He puts food down for the cats, feeling his way around the familiar kitchen blindly, starting, for the first time in what feels like days, to relax just a little. Bond stands at ease, watching him, seemingly cataloguing where everything is. Typical agent.

Q is fairly sure that's not the only thing Bond is studying, as he removes the bits of Q branch equipment/jewelery and drops them into a mug for safe keeping. 

"Come on then." He says to Bond, gesturing towards the door. "Help me with the zip and you're free to go, but i'm not taking this off downstairs." Bond continues to say nothing, and Q starts to wonder if he will ever speak again. He also starts to wonder when Bond will call his bluff, or if he will, but Bond hasn't yet questioned why it was that Q was perfectly able to do the zip up himself earlier.

Instead of worrying, he just leads the way back through the house, past the cats’ sleeping on the armchair, up the stairs to the harsh light of the bathroom. 

Bond steps up close behind him, undoing the clip with a gentle and practised ease, standing close enough that Q can feel him breathing on the back of his neck. The moment is loaded, full of promise. 

Q suppresses a small shudder (and another erection) with difficulty, and steps carefully out of the dress, hanging it over the towel rail. 

When he turns it is to find that Bond has edged even closer, noiseless. They are close enough that Q could count his eyelashes. "oh for fucks..." Q says, quietly, then rises up on top toe, grabbing Bond's face with one hand and thoroughly snogs him.

Bond is immediately enthusiastic, as though he's just been waiting for permission this whole time, pulling Q close, one arm around his waist and the other, trailing down to rest on his arse, still in the ridiculous knickers. 

From there it’s almost like a wordless fight. Bond gets his thigh between Q’s legs, which is frankly unfair when Q is trying to undo his shirt buttons. Q grazes his teeth across Bond’s throat as he pushes the jacket and shirt off, but the noise that Bond makes, a sort of strangled whimper, is distracting in itself.

Naturally, Bond uses this moment of hesitation to somehow shrug out of the shirt and jacket in one fluid movement, before returning his hands to Q's body where he undoes the clasp of the bra, with one hand and cups him through the stupid knickers with the other. 

It’s lucky really, that the bra undoing hand is attached to a strong arm that stays wrapped around his back, because Q goes completely weak at the knees, sagging into Bond’s broad chest with a quiet, strangled, “Fuck.”  
“All in good time.” Bond murmurs into the side of Q’s neck, before lightly licking the small love bite forming there. Q responds by rutting awkwardly against Bond’s hand and digging his fingers into Bond’s spine, the false nails bend slightly with the force, and he is rewarded with a small groan. 

“My bedroom is across the landing, he offers, as though it’s not obvious.” Honest to god, Bond hitches him up, so that Q’s legs are hitched high on his waist, and presses him up against the bathroom wall, the tiles are cold on his back, Bond’s hands are rough and warm, and as he presses his face into Q’s chest, Q lets out another small moan. “Jesus Christ stop teasing me. I cannot fucking cope.” It’s hard to speak, he grits the words out with his breath, hitching as Bond presses into him, erection separated from Bond’s bare midriff by increasingly damp nylon. In answer, Bond licks the hollow at the base of Q’s throat, just between his collarbones, and slides one if his supporting hands inside the knickers to rest on Q’s arse. “Please.” Q suggests, his voice surprisingly level between little gasping intakes of breath. “Stop being an arse and just, fucking, fuck me. Before I make a terrible mess of these stupid frilly knickers and fall asleep on you.” 

Bond chuckles, the stubble tickling Q’s throat unbearably, but he capitulates, lifting them away from the wall and out into the hall, across into the bedroom. “An impressively long sentence.” He remarks, withdrawing his hands to place Q down on the bed. Q sits up, pulls Bond between his legs and undoes his trousers by way of answer. Takes Bond into his mouth as soon as he’s got the trousers and underwear even half way down the other mans thighs, and swallows it as deeply as he can manage. To be fair, it achieves his goal, of shutting the smug prick up, as Bond twines his hands into Q’s hair, more delicately than Joanne had done. The thought of making a second person come all over his face in a night makes Q groan just a little, and shudder, which causes Bond in turn to grip his hair harder. Bond stills him, pulls him up to standing for a probing kiss. Q wonders briefly if Bond can taste himself or the woman on his tongue. Christ he could get used to this. 

“What do you want Q?” Bond asks, when they break apart, and Q could almost laugh, or perhaps cry. “In the drawer.” He says, punctuating his sentences with kisses to Bond’s neck, rutting against him. “Beside the bed.” Bond runs a broad finger down his spine and Q shudders. “I want you to fuck me, and come on my face.” As soon as he gets the last sentence out Bond pulls him closer, wrapping his arms around him, hands roaming ever more freely as Bond sucks in air, suddenly. “Your wish is my command.”

Bond spins Q in his arms, one hand delving into the bedside draw for lube and comdom's, the other pinning Q’s arms as he goes to remove the underwear. “No, keep them on, for me?” How can Q refuse? He lets his arms drop and the restraining hand moves to cup him again, perfectly timed with the other hand which is pushing the knickers to one side, just enough for Bond to slip a lubed up finger into him. “Slick bastard.” Q mutters, and Bond laughs and bites the side of his neck so that Q arches into him, pushing himself back onto the finger. “I like it like this.” Bond whispers, breath, hot against Q’s ear. “Like seeing what I do to you.” Q has given up on full sentences, especially as Bond adds a second finger, crooking them just so. He offers a strangled little moan instead. “I particularly like hearing you ask me to do it.” Bond offers, voice strained, but aiming for conversational. So the mans composure can be broken.

He removes his fingers, and Q groans a little, sagging into the arm that’s now holding him up. “Christ almighty, please just stop talking and put your cock in my arse now.” To be fair, Bond complies, surprisingly gentle with a moan that makes Q’s own cock twitch, still awkwardly constrained by the frilly underwear. It almost hurts, but pleasantly so. A realisation that Q files away for later. 

Bond sets up a rhythm, one large hand rubbing Q through the underwear, the other one roaming up and down his body, alternately gripping his hip then drifting up to grip his neck. Tweaking his nipples in a way that feels surprisingly arousing. “God you’re so beautiful, dressed up like a high class escort.” Bond murmurs, and Q shivers a little.

They don’t last long, how could they with this much build up? Bond changes his angle slightly, rubs a little harder, slipping fingers around the crotch of the knickers, so that for the second time in an evening Q comes suddenly, blissfully, and feels it land in the same place. It’s going to take a comprehensive shower to sort this out, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

Bond groans, pulls out, and Q makes a very embarrassing little noise, but there isn’t time to worry about that. He’s lowering Q, til he’s kneeling on the floor again, and removing the condom, where it takes Q only a few short moments with his mouth and hands to have Bond coming hard, all over his face and into his open mouth.  
Q slumps back against the bed, eyes closed, suddenly more tired than he’s ever been. It must be the early hours by now. He feels and hears Bond sink down next to him, the rustle as the box of tissues is fished off the side and placed into his hands. Q smiles lazily, “You truly are an officer and a gentleman Bond.” Taking a tissue, wiping his eyes so that he can open them pain-free. “Really? You’re still going for Bond? I thought I’d at least merit a James by now.” When Q opens his eyes, Bond, James, is smiling lazily, and he smiles back. “Okay then, James.” 

“Christ you look dishevelled.”

“Charming. I call you James and that’s what I get?” But Q is smiling, and so is Bond. Q flops his head back against the bed, closing his eyes again. “I cannot begin to explain how much I both desperately need a shower, and desperately cannot be bothered.” For an answer, Bond stands up, hoisting Q unceremoniously to his feet. “Come on, in the best possible way, you’re an absolute state.”

Bond manhandles him to the bathroom, where Q can lean on the sink and contemplate his expression whilst the water runs hot. Mascara has flaked a little, giving him a drowzy, panda eye-d expression, James’ come is still drying on one cheek where he hasn’t wiped it off. His hair, neatly straightened and brushed is all over the place. 

“You’re a sexy state.” Bond says, finally helping Q out of the godforsaken underwear and into the shower.


End file.
